Saturday night in the capital of the Turks

Café Pampero looked cozy and inviting in the cold and snowy night so I stepped inside and was immediately welcomed by the staff who all looked like this was home to them. I was hungry and settled at a well lit table so that I could continue reading while consuming a light meal. The food that I ordered turned out to be more solid than anticipated and the wine was distinctly robust. I was perfectly content with my existence in this warm and intimate place when suddenly the live music started. A group of three musicians had assembled in the corner between the bar and the entrance to the kitchen of the small establishment. From the very first chords the music grabbed my attention. With just two Spanish guitars and percussion the young men established their presence with a clear and strong sound firmly anchored in the tradition of their Ottoman homeland. The voice of the singer was powerful as he hurled himself into the abysses of the Arabic scales of his music. The two guitars mingled creating a web of tones and rhythms that was both complex and completely absorbing. The juvenile percussionist with blondish wisps of beard on his thin face was clearly no novice to the hand drums despite his young age. The trio enticed me to stay well beyond my bedtime. Even the pop songs all sung in Turkish sounded fresh and never trite in the hands of these devotees to the music that transcends eras and geography. The small but dedicated audience requested more songs. There were those who were clearly the friends of the band, mixed groups of young men and women, as well as more mature couples drinking, eating and enjoying life on this Saturday night in Ankara. One could clearly hear the Andalusian sounds in the guitars influenced by the Moorish conquerors of the Iberian peninsula since the eighth century. Such was the influence of Arabic culture all around the Mediterranean in its heyday and the Ottomans much later. The Middle East is truly the cradle of western civilization. Musically Turkey, alongside Lebanon, remains at the vanguard of this wonderful culture.

When the band finished its gig, I decided to check out another place that the nice lady in my apartment hotel had recommended. After all, this was my first night in Ankara and tomorrow would be Sunday with precious little program. The next joint was crowded and the cigarette smoke quite thick. A handsome young singer with dark hair carefully coiffed to give a casual look was cavorting on the stage to the rhythms generated by his band. Dressed in tight black pants studded with glittering ornaments back and front and a green paisley shirt open halfway down his chest, he would dance close in front of the women sitting on low chairs wiggling his body in a way that the Taliban would certainly disprove. More people arrived. Burly men kissed each other roughly on the cheek. In Turkey everyone touches and kisses each other. The music was inspiring with its evocative oriental melodies and twirling sounds created by the young man with a studded ear and a goatee behind the Korg keyboard. The percussion set was identical with that at Café Pampero where I had enjoyed the acoustic trio just before: a pair of bongos perched on top of the congas; a row of small tubular bells and a beautiful traditional treble drum that the player held sideways in his lap. Additional authenticity was added by the seated and subdued man skilfully picking on a traditional zither. The joint was hopping. Two small glass angels, one with golden wings on its back, hung suspended above the bar.

I decided to leave when the band took a break and the sound system switched to mechanical Euro beats. The bartender was practicing his Tom Cruise tricks from ‘Cocktail’ precariously hurling bottles into the air behind his back. While I was composing these notes on my palmtop I suddenly noticed the singer had sat next to me on a high stool. In a fresh shirt he himself looked refreshed. “Where are you from,” he asked in better English than I had yet heard in Ankara. When I confessed to being from Finland, he rapidly professed his love for ‘Suomi’, as my country of origin is called in the native lingua. Definitely gay—and nothing bad about that, of course. Having already paid and with the bad music on the stereo I couldn't think of a reason to stay. “Are you going already?” the prancing crooner asked me. “Why?” “I liked your music, not this piped junk,” I explained. He accepted this explanation and smiled sweetly as I eased myself to the cold outside.

There were plenty of young people on the street on this cold February night. Many of them were drunk in a decidedly un-Islamic way. Bottles were being passed around. ”One for the road,” I too thought to myself. And there it was, the City Lounge, just next door. It turned out to be as comfortable as the name suggested so I lounged there for a good while. The clientele consisted of both girls and boys chatting and drinking beer. More interesting, in fact, were the personnel: a friendly young fellow with a thick Afro hairdo à la Jimi Hendrix who brought me my Efes beer; a middle aged guy with a head as bald as a boiled egg and the same shape (clearly in some sort of a supervisory role); another fellow with long brown hair tied in a sort of a ponytail wildly practicing his dance moves on the tiny floor when he wasn't sharing snacks with his buddies amongst the customers. The flat screen TV was showing the raunchiest videos from MTV Turkey. Hot stuff. Who claims that Ankara is a boring place?

Uganda—Unexpectedly

Somewhat unexpectedly, I found myself in Kampala, the verdant capital of Uganda on the highlands of central East Africa. Sitting in the pleasant breeze that blew gently through the greenery in my hotel garden, I reminisced about my old times in this part of the world. Although this was only my second time in Uganda, I had spent much more time in the past in the neighbouring Kenya. In those days, Kenya was the peaceful and thriving nation in the region, while Uganda was ruled by the brutal and capricious dictator Idi Amin, and after his overthrow faced the chaotic times of Milton Obote’s rule. Now times have changed and the tables turned. Although Kenya has by now gotten over the violence and mayhem that marred the elections a year ago, it has long ago been overtaken in economic development by its western neighbour. Kampala is now the boomtown with lots of construction going on and life constantly improving for the people. Nairobi, on the other hand, now contains some of the largest and worst slums in the world and the high crime rate makes life nearly unbearable there.

I hadn’t been here for over a decade. And I hadn’t intended to come here this time either. Just four days before departing from New York, my colleague had come to my office pleading that I would replace him on his Uganda trip. Something had come up and Oscar was not able to travel. Who was I to deny this urgent request, so I started hastily to make travel arrangements. The purpose of the trip was to design an evaluation in the country and all the partners were lined up for the coming week so the timing could not be changed. Now sitting in the cool early evening I was happy I had agreed, although I had initially felt inconvenienced.

In the nearby trees several huge Marabous were flexing their powerful wings. These enormous flying creatures are living proof that birds have indeed evolved from dinosaurs: their resemblance to Pterodactyls is unmistakable! Although the Marabous with their striking size and prehistoric look draw one’s attention, they are far from being the only birds circling above the hilly city or roosting in its many parks. There are hawks and kites, egrets and herons, and a host of smaller feathery things. The famous mountain gorillas lead their leisurely lives in the more remote hills towards and in Rwanda and Burundi, but I had seen smaller monkeys running across the roofs around Entebbe airport when I arrived.

The name Entebbe conjures up images of the legendary raid by Israeli commandos in 1976 to free a planeload of hostages held by Palestinian hijackers at the airport. The dictator Amin himself had appeared at the terminal pontificating to the miserable and exhausted crowd. Having trained as a soldier in Israel, Amin had reversed his affinity towards his old sponsors. To his amazement—and to that of the Palestinians—the Israelis pulled off their daring surprise attack with precision, soon lifting off from Entebbe with the freed hostages.

Located on the shore of Lake Victoria, Entebbe still cannot be described as a major hub, but the airport is clean and functional, served mainly by a few international airlines, such as Ethiopian, Kenya Airways and Emirates on which I am travelling. In addition, there were a few white UN planes serving the world organization’s Congo mission, as well as an assortment of small one- and two-engine craft on the tarmac. The landings and departures take place over the lake, the world’s second largest. From the air it looks as vast as the sea, yet dotted with islands close to the shores.

In Kampala, I chatted with Dennis, a veteran driver who has worked with the United Nations in Uganda for 28 years. He has seen the fortunes of the country rise and fall. He endured the horrors of Dada Amin’s worst excesses. Amin based his rule on fear and himself trusted nobody. He was so afraid of assassination that he would sleep every night in different one of his houses and would himself frequently drive his various cars incognito. He expelled the Asians who formed the economic backbone of the country and even many embassies had to close. Torturing and killing his enemies was routine for the big man. He would ruthlessly get rid of anyone whom he suspected of having any ambitions to challenge him. Amin’s rule lasted eight years (1971-1978). His downfall turned out to be declaring war to next door neighbour Tanzania whose leader Mwalimu (“Teacher”) Julius Nyerere he loathed—and losing it. Despite all his evil deeds, Idi’s karma didn’t catch up with him and he managed to escape to Libya and on to Saudi Arabia where he was allowed to live through his days in luxury as a reward for having propagated Islam in Uganda.

Milton Obote took over. He had been the prime minister of Uganda for the first eight years of independence until the coup by Amin. Such were the misfortunes of the Ugandans that the man whose return they had awaited turned out not to be much better than the one they’d gotten rid of. The renowned Polish Africa correspondent Ryszard Kapuściński described Obote as a “psychopath and butcher”. The country’s fortunes only turned around when Obote was again thrown out and a young reformer Yoweri Museweni took the reign in 1986. Another eight years of misrule had ended.

Today there are actually two Ugandas: the booming, bustling relatively prosperous Uganda, which includes most of the country; then there is the north, which suffered 21 years of armed conflict. At the heart of this conflict was—and still is—a madman called Joseph Kony, whose Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) has terrorized the locals, killing people at will and abducting children to indoctrinate them as frenzied little soldiers. Kony’s movement has the characteristics of a Christian cult with the man himself posing as some sort of saviour. LRA (as well as other lesser rebel groups, such as the Allied Democratic Forces operating from Congo) first had some receptivity amongst the local populace who were particularly weary about the central governments in Kampala. The current chairperson of the Gulu district in the north told me how things had gotten so bad that there was no other way for the people than to abandon their homes and move to refugee camps built by the government. There were hundreds of camps and, according to the chairman, life in them was terrible—but at least it was safe. Finally the people realized that their true enemy was the crazed warlord.

There were several attempts at peace. One was by Betty Bigombe, a former state minister of Uganda. I met an extremely dynamic and bright youngish man, Bruno Otto, who had been part of Mrs. Bigombe’s entourage. Their effort turned out to be short-lived. Despite good intentions, there was never trust established as the opponents considered the good lady as being too close to the Ugandan government. Incidentally, despite his name, Bruno has no German ancestry but is of the Luo tribe (the same as President Barack Obama’s father) and Otto is a local family name. He inherited his first name from his father who had been christened by an Italian priest. The Gulu chairman had himself been a part of another, later delegation that had been flown in the belly of a transport plane to southern Sudan to meet with LRA. It had turned out that the maniac Kony did not dare to venture there but the delegation did meet him across the border close to his camp. Nothing came out of that meeting either.

Today the war criminal is still at large, although on the run presumably hiding in the marshlands of eastern Congo. He is wanted by the International Criminal Court and the government of Uganda has placed a bounty on his head. During my stay in Kampala a local newspaper carried a cartoon of the dreadlocked nutcase half immersed in a swamp with a swarm of mosquitoes attacking him with a plan to kill him with malaria and then claim the prize.

The damage LRA has caused reaches beyond the people he has directly killed and whose lives he has destroyed. Over time, services—health, education and so forth—were built in the camps. Outside, the jungle took over. All infrastructure was destroyed either by the rebels or simply by the encroaching tropical nature that crushed everything in its way. Now that a fragile peace prevails, people are returning to their former homes. But there is nothing to return to but the bush. No roads exist to serve these areas and people are cutting the forest to be able to settle in, thus causing severe environmental damage. No services exist and although the government—as well as the foreign donors, international agencies and NGOs—consider the north as a priority area for development, the demands are huge. In Gulu alone, 43 schools operate outdoors under trees as there are no school buildings.

Uganda as a whole has in recent years been the favourite of foreign aid agencies—‘Donor Darling’ it has been called. Economic growth has been impressive and poverty rates have indeed decreased rapidly, from over half of the people more than a decade ago to the official figure of 31 percent today. This figure, though, hides great regional differences. In the north, the poverty rate is still 61 percent and in Karamoja—the remote semiarid region in the country’s northeast on the border with Kenya—it is still a whopping 75 percent! I had the privilege of meeting with the Minister of Relief, Disaster Preparedness and Refugees, Prof. Tarsis Bazana Kabwegyere, as well as the Under Secretary for Pacification and Development in the Prime Minister’s Office, Mme Flavia Waduwa in charge of the northern region. The philosophical bearded professor, a political sociologist by civil profession, outlined the plans the government had for developing and reintegrating the conflict-affected region into the mainstream of the country. An indication of the importance placed on the north at the highest levels, during my visit on, 17 February 2009, President Museweni in a cabinet reshuffle appointed his wife, the first lady Janet as the Minister for Karamoja. (The good professor was particularly jolly when I met him that same day, having just received a renewed mandate from the president who had sacked several of the ministers.) The newspaper Daily Monitor reported a few days later how the “Karimojong women welcome Janet appointment.”

Despite its current success, Uganda still faces many development challenges. The country is landlocked and vulnerable to any disturbances in its less stable neighbours. Recently, significant amounts of oil were found in the west of the country, nearby Lake Albert on the Congolese border. Wherever in the world oil has been found, it has proven to be a mixed blessing at best. There is fear of conflict with the western neighbour when its people and army smell money in the viscous black substance. There is also a risk that the oil companies will take over, replacing the legitimate government in the region. Lessons from Nigeria, where oil brought terrible suffering to the local people are most pertinent. There the violent conflict over the revenues from the abundant resources that have been shared between the foreign oil companies, like Shell, and the ruling elite in distant Lagos, have little benefited the people whose land has been devastated by the extraction.

Another challenge is the extraordinarily high population growth, which continues at 3.4 percent annually, meaning the doubling of the population in about two decades. Even a growing economy is hampered by that pace. Population growth in the rural areas has long pushed people to the cities. I saw the situation during my previous visit to Uganda in 1998 when I stayed around the small city of Mbarara in the south. The beautiful hilly region used to be a highly productive agricultural area. Already at that time, the massive increases in population had forced the farmers to subdivide their plots for the benefit of their many children and to expand their farms to the steep hillsides, which were ravaged by erosion. Forests had been cut down. In another ten years from now, Uganda will wake up to face a huge cohort of young men who are unemployed, undereducated and angry.

On my last evening in town, my old buddy took me out to explore some of Kampala nightlife. David is an Englishman who has lived here for the past couple of years working as an adviser to the government. We started the evening at ‘Amin Pasha’, an exclusive hotel and restaurant where people like Prince Charles and the former British Prime Minister Tony Blair stayed on their visits to Uganda. It is perched up on a hill with a lovely view down to the valley and the other green mounts. Kampala is surrounded by—and lately sprawling up the slopes of—seven hills. At this elevation, the evening breeze was distinctly cool and this close to the equator darkness descended rapidly.

We continued on to a suburban location to ‘Katch the Sun’, a garden restaurant serving drinks and food. This Thursday night the place was quite crowded with a mixed clientele consisting mostly of locals but also a fair number of foreigners. A band was playing a lively mixture of African high life, jazz and international pop. The band, which apart from the expected guitars and keyboards included a trumpet and African drums, itself was mixed with both black and white players. Their interpretations of international tunes were original and good. For some reason, David decided that they were Kenyan. Sitting in the garden with a friend I hadn’t seen since he moved here, with a refreshing Nile Special in front of me, put me in a relaxed mood.

The following day I would leave this beautiful country, which the British during the colonial days dubbed the Pearl of Africa, a name that still meets the traveller arriving at Entebbe. I deeply hope that when I return here next time things will continue to look up and the country will prosper in peace like today.

From Abu Dhabi to Dubai - and back

This country is one great construction site, I was thinking as we sped through the desert at 150 kph. On both sides of the arrow-straight six-lane highway tall cranes obscured the horizon as buildings were coming up at a frenzied pace. Despite our considerable speed, luxury cars were overtaking us from the left at a steady pace: the usual BMWs and MBs, as well as Lexuses (Lexi?), Infinitis, a couple of Corvettes, an occasional Porsche. The road between the two largest of the seven emirates, Abu Dhabi and Dubai, was heavily trafficked. My driver, a middle-aged Filippina lady, was telling me how life in the Emirates was getting harder, while she was skilfully navigating the rapid flow of cars. She marked the turning point three years ago when a new sheikh had taken the reigns and the cost of living had just skyrocketed. Having lived in the country for 16 years, she had an historical perspective. Now, it was getting harder and harder to save any money. Housing was as expensive as in New York City—others had confirmed this to me earlier—and she had to share an apartment in Abu Dhabi with a number of her co-sisters from their archipelago nation thousands of kilometres away. The company she was driving for even deducted the speed tickets from her salary, although there was no way anyone could stick to the official limit of 140 kph.

She was one of the many foreigners who constitute some 80% of the population of 4.5 million people in the United Arab Emirates. The largest groups are South Asians from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh who work in construction and other manual labour, as well as the Filippinos mostly in service industries. My Jordanian colleague Ghaith who has lived in Dubai for 3 months had to his astonishment found that some 250,000 of his 6 million compatriots are living in this small dry land by the Persian Gulf. I had witnessed the variety of nationalities right upon arrival in Abu Dhabi. The tax free shops at the airport were all run by the Chinese. When I exited the terminal building I was offered a ride by a Pakistani taxi operator—I didn’t hesitate to enter his air conditioned car as quickly as he opened the door, such was the heat that hit me like a wall immediately when I stepped out. My hotel reception was wo-manned by two friendly ladies from the Philippines, while my bag was taken by an equally friendly—and obviously gay—Bangladeshi fellow.

It turned out that there was a stretch of land in between the two city states on the Gulf that was not under construction. Here a grey desert landscape dotted with dusty brush vegetation was prevalent. The road was lined with stubby palm trees baking in the sun. Here and there we’d pass exit signs to camel racing stadiums, a popular pastime in this part of the world. But soon enough as we approached Dubai the construction started again. On October 11th of 2008, The Economist reported that the Dubai property market was hitting a snag. Morgan Stanley had issued a prediction that Dubai property prices would fall by 10% by 2010. There simply wouldn’t be enough demand for all the property that is constantly being constructed. This might not sound like a huge drop—especially given the state of the world economy today—but here in Dubai this had come as a shock. People were used to quick returns and—literally—only considered the sky the limit!

Approaching the centre of the city the traffic was getting heavier, often slowed down by construction. Finally we pulled in front of the impressive entrance to my hotel, the Al Murooj Rotana. The huge hotel complex turned out to be luxurious as expected. In addition to the usual Filippinas, the reception and concierge were crowded with uniformed European ladies serving the customers. As I was shown into my room on the second floor, I reflected that this matched my expectations much better than the modest quarters I had been allocated in Abu Dhabi. There had been some convention or other in the town and all accommodations were full despite the outrageous surcharges the hotels had imposed on us hapless travellers. As a consequence, I had paid through the nose for what could best be described as a guesthouse, quite far from the shore, albeit in the centre of the city.

As I had arrived in Abu Dhabi at noon on a Friday, I had some time to explore the place before work started (here, Friday and Saturday are the free weekend days). Despite the heat—with only 40 degrees Celsius I heard several people express gratitude that the summer was over and the temperatures were finally coming down!—I spent much of Saturday walking about town. The city wasn’t quite as exuberant as I had imagined. There were numerous five-star hotels but otherwise the street scene was rather sedate. I talked my way past an African guard and entered the private pool complex of the Sheraton (he later changed his mind and tried to find me, but I had by then merged with the crowds) and had lunch in the shade of a palm tree. Afterwards I peeked into the fancier shops until I discovered a large variety store frequented by the lower echelons of the immigrant populace. Here the prices were very reasonable and I decided to stock up on necessities such as toothpaste that I knew was running low. I also followed the advice of my hotel’s nice Bangladeshi doorman and found an internet café. The hotel did, of course, have an internet connection in the rooms, but at an exorbitant rate! This dinghy place was completely full with foreigners so I had to wait—and the air was so thick with grey cigarette smoke that one could cut it with a knife—but the connection was good and reasonably priced.

The evenings were pleasant, as there was a slight wind from the Gulf that moderated the heat after sunset. On the first night, I wondered into a spacious pub called Mood Indigo, located within the Novotel Centre Hotel. I was lured in by the sound of live jazz streaming out through the door. It turned out to be an excellent choice. The band consisted of four skilled musicians on trumpet, piano, bass and drums playing jazz standards with flair. I sat back with a pint of cider and enjoyed the music as long as it lasted. The piano player was particularly versatile with a fluid technique and obviously deep knowledge of musical history. When the concert was over after midnight I wandered over and joined the band at its table. It was another crew demonstrating the variety of the Emirates’ population. The piano virtuoso, Vladimir, was from Belarus (and, as it turned out, was only sitting in for the missing pianist; his main instrument being the saxophone). The smooth bass player, Denis Mercado, came from the Philippines, while the horn player was American and the drummer Australian. They played gigs in the hotels and restaurants both in Abu Dhabi and Dubai.

On the following night, I decided to splurge on a good meal. After having studied local tourist magazines, I jumped into a cab that took me a good fifteen minute ride on the coastal road to the Hilton Abu Dhabi at the other end of the city. Somewhat separate from the hotel on the beachside of the road was Vasco’s, a recommended restaurant named after Vasco Da Gama with eclectic international cuisine. My initial preference would have been to stay inside because of the heat but the place was crowded, so I was directed to a table on the spacious terrace. This turned out to be lucky. The evening was dark and there was an Arabian moon above the sea. The meal I had was absolutely gorgeous. I started with a fresh salad and a cool glass of dry Sauvignon Blanc. This was followed by a heavenly portion of Capelli d’Angeli pasta with jumbo shrimp and porcini mushrooms in an arrabbiata sauce. Pure bliss! After the meal I waddled over to Hemingway’s Pub on the hotel premises for a nightcap.

As evident, alcohol is quite freely available in the restaurants in UAE. Nevertheless, this Muslim country's relationship with liquor is somewhat complicated. The importation and transportation of alcohol between the emirates are prohibited by law and, while anyone can buy booze from the airport tax free shops upon arrival, possession and drinking of alcohol without a personal license is an offense. Obviously, the laws are not strictly enforced, at least for foreigners, except that blatant public drunkenness can apparently lead to stiff fines and even jail time.

Back in Dubai I was getting ready to visit the Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum Foundation or MBRF. This was a new outfit set up by the Sheikh of Dubai under his own name. Sheikh Mohammed is a powerful man in this country. He is the Ruler of Dubai, as well as the Prime Minister and Vice-President of the entire UAE (the President is the ruler of Abu Dhabi). Conscious of the problems besetting the Arab region—and in particular the lack of education and a culture that appreciates knowledge—the good sheikh in May 2007 announced that he would donate US$10 billion (!) to set up an educational foundation for the Middle East. He had been particularly inspired by the 2003 Arab Human Development Report produced under the auspices of UNDP with the theme ‘Building a Knowledge Society.’ Thus MBRF was born with the lofty goal of “introducing a future generation capable of facing challenges to attain sustainable development.” The foundation was located in Dubai Healthcare City (several parts of Dubai are named with such themes, like the Dubai Media City) some twenty minutes away from my hotel in the World Trade Centre area (this was going there in good traffic; as I would find out returning to my hotel, the trip could take well over an hour during evening rush). I had meetings with the MBRF Knowledge and Education sector staff who were developing a forward-looking program with the ample funds available. In fact, the largest initiative thus far was creating an Arab Knowledge Report series to engage institutions and citizens in the Arab region in global issues and concerns related to building knowledge societies. This ambitious goal would help to enhance the understanding of the regional and national development problems and priorities thus leading to better policies and strategies to address them. The work is being done jointly by MBRF with UNDP and the first Arab Knowledge Report will be launched with appropriate ceremonies in the spring of 2009. I wish the endeavour all the success!

On the next day before heading to the airport to catch a late night plane I had some free time to look around this city of wonders. My hotel was located close to Burj Dubai, the world’s tallest skyscraper. This amazing building rises 707 metres from the ground and has 160 floors (as compared with 102 in the Empire State Building or 110 in Chicago’s Sears Tower). It has been under construction since 2004 and is now nearing completion. However, its distinction will not be long-lived: the construction of the even taller Dubai Tower has already commenced!

I again jumped into a taxi and asked it to take me to the Mall of the Emirates. One has to travel by taxi most of the time. There are not many places where one can walk and public transportation systems are only now being built. My friend Erkki who recently visited Dubai observed that people make the mistake of judging the city by European standards. The Arabian-Indian city concept consists of notable places—in the past palaces, mosques and markets; now replaced with hotels and malls—with ‘nothing’ in between. Therefore the challenge is to move between these places. The Mall of the Emirates is—you guessed it!—the world’s largest. Except that the Dubai Mall now under construction will overtake it in size. For me the Emirates Mall was perfectly sufficient, though. It consists of various promenades and wings each with a different theme. There are huge areas specialising in electronics and another wing that sells exclusive and ostentatious jewellery. One segment is like a traditional Arabic souk, complete with oriental carpets and fashion shops selling black coverall robes for women. Not that you see that many covered women around the mall. Of course, some walk around with their white-clad husbands covered in black from head to toe. But many others are dressed in jeans and designer t-shirts. What was conspicuously absent in this vast paradise of consumption was anything cultural. The only exception was the Virgin Megastore with an interesting book section and excellent music department.

Most amazingly, the mall contains a full-sized indoor ski resort, Ski Dubai, where ski lifts are taking revellers up the snowy slopes. I decided to have a snack in the St. Moritz Café where I could sit by a fake fireplace and observe the goings on in the winter wonderland. I ordered a fresh mango juice with my croque madame. The wait staff in the resort-like restaurant wore red shirts with 'Après Ski Instructor' emblazoned on the back. I wondered whether these people from their tropical homelands were aware of the connotations that the term had for us coming from the colder climes. But surely this was the only place in the world where you could lie on the beach and ski down the slopes within half a day.

In the evening it was time to leave the Emirates. My Etihad flight would be at 2 a.m. from Abu Dhabi airport (unfortunately, I had failed to secure a seat from the closer Dubai airport and had to travel another 160 km back to where I had come from). The driver picked me up at 10 p.m. and I sunk in the comfortable leather backseat of the black Lexus. This time the driver was a Pakistani national who had come to Dubai as a child with his parents. Unlike the lady who brought me the opposite direction, this gentleman had no complaints about the country. On the contrary, he spent considerable time explaining the virtues of UAE and how this was a good place to live. It was prosperous and harmonious and the Sheikh took good care of the people. He concluded that this was indeed a model for the Arab world: safe and orderly, with little conflict. We could certainly agree that such peace and harmony was in short supply in the region as a whole. Towards the end of the drive we had found a common accord against narrow-mindedness and fanaticism. As we separated at the airport, my enlightened chauffeur and I shook hands warmly and agreed to work for tolerance and understanding.

Ben Allison & Medicine Wheel @ The Jazz Standard on Election Night, November 4, 2008

In the early evening there was a lot of tension in the air. Despite the polls predicting a landslide, the first results were less than assuring. The red state of Kentucky was going to McCain and when votes from only the southern precincts of Virginia were counted they were hugely tilted towards the Republicans. The pundit duo following the count closely on their Mac laptops and commenting on stage at regular intervals could not fully agree which way the race was going. The journalist Fred Kaplan was confident and upbeat, while NPR’s Brooke Gladstone was clearly more nervous about the outcome. I told Suzanne sitting across from me that, although as a non-citizen I couldn’t vote, I felt I had a huge stake in the election. She agreed: the whole world had a huge stake in this election.

We were at the Jazz Standard, my favourite club in New York. Apart from the pundits, the stage was occupied by Ben Allison & Medicine Wheel. This whole idea of jazz and politics on the election night was the brainchild of Ben and his wife Suzanne who is a director at the Asia Society. It had attracted a full house to this cellar club in the Murray Hill neighbourhood.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to mention that Ben and Suzanne have been my good friends for many years. Still, objectively, Ben Allison is one of the most innovative and successful contemporary jazz composers of recent years. This year he was rated highly both as composer and acoustic bass player in the prestigious Down Beat magazine critics’ poll. The equally esteemed Billboard magazine raved about his new album, Little Things Run the World: “Hands down, this bassist/composer's newest is the primo jazz release of 2008 so far and promises to stand tall as one of the year's best.” His compositions, often wrapped around a bass hook, achieve the rare combination of simple, yet novel melodies and harmonies, with steady beats accentuated with surprising twists. Don’t get me wrong: there’s no gimmickry, just plain good writing.

Ben is also a politically aware person. In fact, his current band, Man Size Safe, is sarcastically named after the outgoing (finally!) Vice-President Dick Cheney who was last year revealed by the Washington Post as having a man-sized safe in his office to prevent his papers from leaking and his sinister machinations from ending up in the National Archives.

Tonight, however, it was Ben’s old band, Medicine Wheel, which had been brought back together for the event after several years of inactivity. The frontline consisted of two of the best young saxophone players, Michael Blake and Ted Nash, with the guest addition of Jenny Scheinman on violin. A strong jazz artist in her own right, Jenny Scheinman had joined the band only for tonight. As usual, Frank Kimbrough on piano and Michael Sarin on drums completed the set-up. Referring to the theme of the evening, the leader hinted that the titles of the pieces they’d play had gained new and additional political meaning.

So the first tune, ‘Spy,’ originally referred to a club where Ben and Michael Blake used to play years ago, but today its title could be interpreted differently. The performance immediately lifted the mood in the club. Following the catchy lead theme played by the two sax men on tenors, Ted Nash made a splash with a crisp solo on his curved soprano sax. This old piece already showed Ben Allison’s sense of nuance and dynamism. After the feisty saxophone, the band quieted to a pianissimo string moment with a sweet combination of violin and bass joined by Kimbrough plucking the strings of the grand piano with his fingers.

‘Green Al’ had been originally written as a tribute to Al Green, but had lately gained other obvious connotations. The laidback tune started with the composer’s funky bass backed by Michael Sarin’s sensitive and subtle groove that created a tangible tension to the music. Against this backdrop, Michael Blake blew the lyrical melody with his lush tenor sax. Adding to the sensual mood was Jenny Scheinman’s smooth and sexy violin.

The music continued interrupted only by the updates by Gladstone and Kaplan. Next came the forceful ‘Riding the Nuclear Tiger’ (which until now has been pronounced ‘nookulear’). Then a cover of Herbie Nichols’ sweet ‘Love is Proximity’ on which Sheinman’s violin and Nash’ soprano provided a beautiful background to Blake’s tenor.

‘Blabbermouth’ showcased a sturdier side of Michael Sarin. The drummer demonstrated without any doubt that he is a master of a strong groove. This piece, like every other one heard tonight, also highlighted the remarkable orchestration skills of Ben Allison. With only two saxophones, violin and the rhythm section he created such harmonies that the listener would think that there was a large orchestra on stage.

At this time of the evening, the mood was reaching the ceiling and glasses were raised to cheers. Not only was the music extraordinary, the reports of the election results were becoming increasingly hopeful. After all, we wouldn’t have to wait until late night before the real celebrations could start. There would be historic change!

A Lebanese Night in Dubai

On the last night of my two-week Middle Eastern trip I had decided to spoil myself sparing no cost. An essential part of the plan was that I would spend this last night in Dubai, an emirate known for its luxurious extravagances. I was staying at the Al Murooj Rotana, a huge hotel complex by the Emirates-based chain of luxury hotels. I would only have a couple of meetings in the afternoon and could subsequently take the evening easy. I thought I’d deserve this after the hectic time rushing around through the relentless air pollution in Cairo and the overpriced squalor of Abu Dhabi.

You can imagine my distress then when, after meetings that went on for much longer than I had hoped, my return to the hotel was further delayed for two hours by the appalling traffic in the city. On top of that, I had received a message from my boss in New York—just starting her workday when mine was supposed to wind down –that she wanted a draft paper from me within the same day. It was thus already 10 o’clock in the evening when I finally managed to walk out of my room with an empty stomach and regrets for the missed opportunities.

I shouldn’t have worried too much. Having studied the options nearby and within the sprawling Al Murooj complex already in advance, I headed straight to the superb Lebanese restaurant Mawal. The rather large, yet cosy place was only perhaps a third full as this was still considered rather early for a dinner, even on a weekday. I got a good table for myself and studied the surroundings. There were a few groups of Arabs getting ready for an evening of entertainment at various tables. All were well-dressed in casual western garb. Of the dozen or so women, only one wore a discreet headscarf; others were elegant in designer dresses.

Before I had even had the time to order, the table in front of me was starting to fill with plates. There was a basket of bread and a huge tray of big and juicy olives, hot peppers and three kinds of sour pickled vegetables, which I could only guess what they were. Another plate was piled up with fresh crudités. I added a tabouleh salad to my order in addition to a mixed grill consisting of tasty cubes of beef and spiced chicken kebab, grilled tomatoes and onion, and my favourite koobideh kebab made of minced meat. Everything was covered with ample chopped parsley that cleanses the breath after onion, garlic and spices. This turned out to be a superb meal! Then when I no longer expected anything, a real horn of plenty was placed in front of me bursting with seven kinds of fresh fruit. I initially focused on the ripe mangoes and rambutans, but the real treat turned out to be the large purple grapes that would fill one’s mouth with sweet juice.

At 11 p.m., three musicians walked to the stage. Two of them sat behind batteries of keyboards and percussion instruments, while the one in the middle picked up an electric violin. Starting with catchy Lebanese tunes, the band was immediately able to lift the atmosphere in the restaurant. These rhythmically complex songs with mysterious melodies were played with aplomb and showmanship that forced one to be drawn into the mood. In between, the violinist employed his considerable skills to interpreting some popular but trivial western tunes played against the mechanical Euro beats so much detested—and perhaps rightly so—by the Americans. Luckily, he soon returned to the more appropriate Arabic modes.

By this time more customers had entered. I observed as a third member joined two other chic ladies at a table right next to the stage. By their appearance, I suspected that this graceful but merry trio were Lebanese. The small Mediterranean nation is widely known for three things: excellent music, superb cuisine, and extraordinarily beautiful women. I was lucky to be witnessing all these attributes here tonight. (Incidentally, the other night watching Aljazeera on TV, I happened on an interview with the Irish rocker Chris De Burgh who is particularly popular in Lebanon; he appeared to attest to the same triumvirate.) The fourth attribute, unfortunately more often associated with Lebanon, is of course the persistent war and conflict that has persistently flared up over the past three decades. This conflict has involved the multicultural Mediterranean nation’s Muslim and Druze populations and is kept alive by the anti-Israeli militia, Hezbollah. It in turn is backed by the Iranian regime in Tehran. The Machiavellian neighbour Syria also likes to add to the mess and stoke the fires for its own political purposes. Sadly, this has turned Beirut—formerly known as the Paris of the east—into ruin.

Just as the three ladies were about to embark on dinner, the lights were dimmed and the keyboardist announced against a backdrop of dramatic sound effects that it was time to welcome the belly dancer! Now, I have seen several belly dancing performances in places like Cairo and Istanbul, but this one turned out to be a particular treat. The tall and attractive lady swooped to the stage to the accompaniment of the band that was creating a full and authentic music layered with the live and pre-programmed oriental instruments through the synthesizers. The dancer was dressed in an Islamic green bikini top glimmering with jewels and tiny mirrors, and a matching long skirt, with a slit upon one thigh that reached all the way up there. In addition, she had two large pieces of white silk tied to her waste that she used to the effect of angel wings or sails fluttering in the wind.

She was clearly able to shake each and any part of her voluptuous body independently from any other part. She would glide rapidly through the floor apparently barely moving her feet or her head, all the while every part in between would do the seductive dance. Every dance she performed was different, with a different tempo and theme. The angel wings were gone after the first dance and we could now focus on her movements without the distraction of the whirling silk. Sometimes she would use her long hair as a prop, at times spinning it around in coordination with the music; at other times using it as a veil to cover her face. In one dance she grabbed a silver coloured walking cane as a prop (obviously not used during the times of a thousand and one nights). She would twirl it skilfully like a cheerleader might in front of a marching band in America. She then placed the stick horizontally on her head leaving it there while continuing to gyrate her hips and other parts of her anatomy below the neck. Later she repeated this trick with an Arabian style sword which she put on her head as she slithered slowly as a snake to the lengthy cadenza played by the violin virtuoso. These dances drew huge applause from the audience, almost all of whom were Arabs.

Towards the end of the hour-long show her smooth bronzed body shone sensually with sweat in the air conditioned room. I could not help but to think about the performance by the Finnish soprano Karita Mattila singing the name role in Salome at the Metropolitan in New York. My friend Vesa and I had witnessed the culmination of the opera in the ‘Seven Veils Dance’ which has made the diva even more famous. Richard Strauss, when composing the music in 1924, had invested all of his imagined oriental entrapments into this song. And it is still today very impressive and beguiling. Yet it cannot compared with the real thing.

Walking back satisfied after the meal and performance, I was thinking how rich the Middle Eastern culture is. It is a pity that there are elements in this region who see all of this as sinful and unlawful and who therefore wish to impose their intolerant version of Islam on their fellow humans.

Leaving Cairo - Patience and flexibility are a must!

Is it possible to be patient and aggressive all at the same time? In any case, these are some of the traits that are required when one passes through Cairo airport. Flexibility is another one. The chaos starts at the parking lot. I had left my hotel on the Nile waterfront, Corniche el Nil, in good time and everything went smoothly on this Friday morning (Friday is the weekly holiday in Egypt and other Muslim countries, so the traffic was light) until we reached the airport. Unlike at most other airports of the world where the taxi drops off the passenger on the curb in front of the departure hall, in Cairo the parking lot away from the terminal building is as far as the taxis get. Already there, complete and utter chaos reigned with cars and vans gridlocked—horns blaring, needless to say—in the tight spots. Passengers with their loads of luggage fought to squeeze in between the cars towards the distant terminal.

Once in there, it got worse. The throngs were incredible. It seems that every departing passenger had brought along his or her relatives, extended family, friends, and probably a few strangers just for show, to wave them off to their destinations. The crowds were almost impossible to penetrate. There were very few foreigners, which is understandable as this terminal was exclusively for Egypt Air departures. Anyone with the wherewithal would do his or her utmost to choose some—any!—other carrier. The few Europeans who were there looked desperate. The information on the rare screens was confusing even to the initiated and airline employees were screaming instructions over the commotion. This wasn’t very helpful, as the details were provided in Arabic. At least I thought it was Arabic, although it was hard to hear over the general noise. Trying to penetrate the crowd and move towards my check-in area I suddenly hit a wall. The mob was so large and densely packed that it couldn’t move anymore in any direction. I estimated I’d still have a good twenty meters to reach the safety of the passengers-only area. For several minutes I did not move. Children started to cry loudly, although one little boy found it amusing to run between the legs of the waiting people, as if he were in a thick forest of big trees, in the process trampling on many feet. In front of me, several baggage trolleys were fatally interlocked. At the same time, I saw some important looking thugs ushered through the side gates without having to queue at all. I was fuming at this unfairness, while starting to despair at the lack of any progress. I do not do well in these kinds of situations.

Suddenly, a young Egyptian man appeared next to me. In good English, he suggested that he could take me through quickly, as he didn’t want to see me suffer inside the horde. I could thus become like those thugs who used their privileges and money to bypass the discomforts accorded to the commoners. Out of principle, I refused his services. But after several minutes when he found me again at precisely the same spot, I relented and handed my suitcase to him. Corruption breeds corruption. Miraculously, he managed to lead us through, the multitude of humanity parting in front of his determination like the Red Sea in front of Moses. It turned out to be a lucky decision on my part to sacrifice my principles. Namely, the fellow headed to an unexpected direction. Unbeknownst to me, it had been announced (in Arabic) that the flight to Abu Dhabi departs from Hall 2. Without the kindness of this stranger, I would have wasted the morning in Hall 1 only to find that I had joined the wrong throng. We breezed through the terminal scattering groups of people, sailing past lines, through gates that would suddenly be opened to us by uniformed officers who obviously were in this little enterprise together with my facilitator. I felt relieved, grateful that I had been born wealthy enough to afford this service.

Finally inside the check-in hall we separated and I joined a line behind the Egypt Air counter. This was not too bad. There were not so many people in front of me and the hall itself was only half-full. Of course, the decibel level was still well above internationally accepted WHO norms. There were what seemed like hundreds of children, seemingly belonging to only a handful of women. Those that were not running around and screaming excitedly at the prospect of travel were wailing in frustration because of the same.

I was in my thoughts and noticed too late that a few people had squeezed in between me and the man in front of me in the line. Nothing to do about that; the opening had been for grabs. In Egypt, one has to breath into the neck of the guy before you—and move strategically to block any sideline attempts—if you want to keep your place in a queue. The cutting is not even remotely subtle; it’s pure survival of the fittest.

It turned out that I had chosen the wrong line anyway. The large gentleman, traveling with what I assumed were his son and his wife and little daughter, was negotiating with the agent about the obviously excessive amount of luggage. From the scales I saw that the family had 146 kg of bags to check in. The negotiation—which alternated between loud and threatening shouts and sweet smiling cajoling—lasted a good fifteen minutes. Finally money exchanged hands as the portly man doled out the agreed sum from a thick wad of Egyptian pounds in his pocket. Whether these would actually go to the airline would never be known.

In the meantime, a fight was about to break out in the next line to my left. The situation looked menacing. The reason for conflict was apparently the same. I saw that the lone gent was proposing to check in 72 kg worth of luggage. I am sure he would prevail in the end. What they were doing was only negotiating the price. Third World people do not travel light. I was beginning to worry whether our old 737 would be able to take off with all this overweight!

The next hurdle would be passport control. Again, the lines did not look too bad, but looks were deceptive. The system ensured that it would take the required time. There were two people at every passport counter: a uniformed man checking and stamping the passports, and a lady wearing a headscarf entering the information from the departure cards into an ancient computer (a classic case of two officers of whom one knows how to read and the other how to write). Furthermore, they would occasionally allow women with children—did I mention that there were children?—jump the line, presumably on humanitarian grounds. From his high counter, the border official looked down judging all passengers. I hoped that I had filled in the departure card correctly, so as not to be sent back to the end of the line. I sighed in relief when I was handed back my stamped travel document.

Behind the passport control there was another counter where an elderly man was waiting to—get ready for this—check your passport. This was a more casual inspection and the uncle was glad to wave me onwards.

Now that I had been cleared through, it was obvious that what I had thought of as ample lead time I had given myself at the airport had been just about enough. Departure time was approaching, and I had made it. It was still only 9 o’clock in the morning, but it felt like I had done a day’s work. So when my hopeful eyes detected that the snack bar actually sold beer, I happily ordered a cold Egyptian Stella. The cashier produced the can. I said that I’d have to pay in US dollars, as I had given all of my remaining pounds to the facilitator. The man behind the cash machine said: no dollars, only pounds. This is the international airport of a world city and a major regional hub, and they only accept local currency, I thought with my mood sinking rapidly. However, if there’s one thing that I had learned, it was: be flexible and never take anything at face value. So I entered into a negotiation with the kind coffee shop employee. Naturally, we soon agreed and I laid down four greenbacks in exchange of the cool beverage. Smiling, we both agreed this was a fair price and, indeed, it was worth it. Life was starting look up.

Night out on the Nile

The other night one of my old friends, Roland, took me out on the town in Cairo. We met at my hotel, the Conrad, where we enjoyed the ‘happy hour’—meaning two drinks for one, which still left each one of them outrageously pricey!—in Le Bar. We then crossed the Corniche el Nil, risking our lives dashing between the never-ending and fast-moving flow of cars along the Nile, and grabbed a taxi upstream. After a while in the disastrous traffic, the driver reached the crossing in the Garden City area where we were supposed to turn left to reach our destination, but armed guards blocked our way. Cars without a specific pass were not allowed beyond this point. We had to abandon the taxi and continue on foot into the quiet residential neighborhood. We passed the British embassy, which stood dark, fortified with serious barricades; then the American embassy—the biggest mission of the nation anywhere in the world—a veritable fortress from whence the good diplomats would hardly ever have to venture.

We turned right onto a yet another residential street. Egyptian soldiers dressed in camouflage fatigues were lounging around in the shadows, smoking. The streets reminded me vaguely of some of the residential neighborhoods in Rome, with small European cars parked haphazardly along—and sometimes on—the sidewalks. One of the soldiers pointed us to the right direction and finally Roland recognized the building where the Cairo Capitol Club was located. Downstairs, I was surprised to notice, was more than half-shabby. There were four elevators, only one of which would reach the exclusive 19th floor club. After a considerable wait, the elevator picked us up. The style of the building changed already in the small cabin, which was lined with fake bookshelves decorated with faux leather-bound volumes, which upon casual observation appeared quite real. Only a closer look revealed that none of them were actual books, but just their backs inscribed with the name of the club and some of its dignitaries. Classic western pop music was playing through the piping.

I followed in Roland’s footsteps as he walked in determinedly. As we entered the venerable club we found that we were the only people on the top floor overlooking the Nile. A beautiful young lady ran after us asking whether we actually were members. Roland explained honestly that, no, we were not, but that he’d been there on several occasions before. This explanation seemed to satisfy the maitre d' who returned to her counter while we positioned ourselves on some well-worn but comfortable leather sofas by the floor-to-ceiling windows and ordered rum and coke. It was fabulous to sit down with my old friend, who with his wife moved to Cairo just six weeks ago, and inhale the gorgeous view across one of the world’s mightiest rivers.

I had arrived in Cairo on the Friday before, on a flight that could be kindly described as less than satisfying. It had been a direct flight from New York on Egypt Air—in business class, no less. Still, it was so cramped that it would have made some of other airlines’ economy classes seem spacious. Next to me on the 10-hour flight sat a very pleasant Filippino-Canadian gentleman, on his way to a gorgeous holiday involving a cruise on the Nile and a lovely sojourn to the fabled Masai Mara game park in Kenya with his gentleman friend. He was delightful company but when he slept—that is, most of the night—it was impossible for me to get out of my claustrophobic little corner by the window. My claustrophobia was not eased by the fact that, true to Islamic ways, the good airline didn’t carry any alcohol that could have at least dulled the pain.

The taxi driver who took me to the Conrad from the airport assured me that the hotel was the “best in Cairo,” a veritable “7 stars!” It was neither, of course. But it was comfortable enough to allow me to rest well over the past few nights after the distressing flight.

I was on a business trip—a ‘mission’ as the UN calls them somewhat pretentiously—and was traveling with two companions. Fuat is an elderly (only as counted in chronological years) gentleman originally from Istanbul. Mouna has spent most of her life in places other than her native Yemen, including Beirut, Paris and New York. Both are extremely sophisticated, smart and—most importantly—fun people. In the first three nights in town we had gone out together to places, such as the Naguib Mahfouz Café (where the Nobel prize winning novelist apparently used to sit every night; on our night, though, everyone in the main dining room was a tourist), a wonderfully eclectic joint called Abu Seid (Fuat seemed to think it was a bit too funky for him), and the restaurant Le Tarbouche on a boat moored to the Nile banks (here the music played on an oud and a hand drum was perfect in both tone and atmosphere)—so tonight was a welcome opportunity to escape from my partners in crime, as much as I enjoy their company.

Roland and I have met each other in many countries—we counted Bangladesh, Germany, Austria, USA and Sri Lanka amongst them—since we left Rome where the both of us used to live two decades ago. Through all these years we’ve kept in touch, although sometimes long passages of time would take place between our meetings. Despite the time that has passed since our original encounters, we again realized that nothing has changed. We are still the same silly young men, with the same silly joys and silly concerns, as before. And why should this change? Cairo is still the same after a much longer history. Of course, its population has grown, the pollution increased, and some neighborhoods have thrived, while others have declined.

The view from the 19th floor was unparalleled. On the river, as every night, a colorful parade of boats entertaining guests for merriment was passing at frequent intervals. The traditional feluccas—the boats with white triangular sails that feature in so many Cairo postcards—seemed hardly existent. From the height we could only observe a couple of their darkened silhouettes silently gliding on the black surface. Have the commercialized motor boats truly replaced the quiet and clean sailing vessels that so defined this mighty river since thousands of years? Hopefully not fully replaced; but certainly overwhelmed them in number.

The talk of the town in Cairo for the several weeks before this had been the murder of the famed Lebanese songstress Suzanne Tamim in Dubai in late-July. The murderer—an off-duty Egyptian policeman—had been identified from security camera pictures as he cheated his entrance disguised as a maintenance man to the glamorous woman’s unit, only to slash her throat in quick succession with a large knife. What made this story unique was that it was soon determined that the killer was most likely doing his deed at the orders of the renowned Egyptian billionaire magnate, Hisham Talaat Moustafa, who had been the starlet’s former lover. It appeared that the man had become savagely jealous when the woman had wanted to end the affair and moved to Dubai to escape her pursuer. The man had not been able to tolerate the humiliation and had contracted the officer to kill her. This was not the most amazing part of the story, however. It was that, in the face of overwhelming forensic evidence, the Egyptian police actually decided to arrest the real estate developer in September. It was completely unheard of in Egypt that a powerful oligarch—and a personal friend of President Mubarak’s son (who himself may well be the next President Mubarak)—actually would (could!) be held accountable for anything that he did, even if it was outright murder. People were stunned. Many theories and rumors flew around wherever Egyptians gathered. One of the more believable ones was that, while the law was the same for everyone (and the death penalty applied to murderers as well as those who commissioned them), the tycoon had already been allowed to leave the country. He would be living somewhere else under an alias, while a substitute would be hanged and presented as proof that the law is the same for the rich and the poor.

We remained the only guests on the top floor of the club for the entire night. On the floor below, there was an engagement party with a bunch of rowdy and obviously affluent Egyptians. The music—ranging from Arabic dance music to the western pop of yesteryear (think Tom Jones)—penetrated upstairs. Raising his glass, Roland toasted to "the exclusive dinner with the inclusive music!” The food was indeed exquisite. The Mexican tomato soup (as opposed to the "fresh" tomato soup also on the menu) with chicken balls (they exist, you know) was absolutely delicious. My main course of salmon (probably flown in earlier in the day from Scotland or Norway—not by any means an environmentally recommendable practice) was one of the best I’ve ever had—and that’s a statement from a Nordic character who grew up on salmon! It was placed on a bed of lentils that was as subtle and tasty as—well—pulses can be. We washed it all down with a local Omar Khayyam white wine, which proved itself to be almost as poetic as the person who lent his name to the beverage.

Cairo never sleeps, says the slogan, but we decided it was time. Descending down in the old library-elevator, we again entered the quiet, well-guarded street. Passing by the concrete stoppers and ignoring the heavy weaponry nonchalantly pointed at us, we were back on the Corniche. An old Peugeot 504 taxi soon stopped at our beckoning. The driver initially protested that he wanted to go home quickly, but soon agreed to make a u-turn and take us to our respective homes. The driver sporting a thick moustache was in an exuberant mood. He asked us in broken English, why did we think he’d be so full of joy. When we couldn’t guess, he revealed that in only two days would his first son reach 7 years of age! This made him so happy that he was talking nonstop. Speeding through the Cairo thoroughfare at astonishing speed (which, in the absence of a working speedometer, was impossible to verify) while the driver was half the time turned towards the back seat declaring his friendship toward us made me wonder whether I’d be able to reach my own next birthday. When we stopped in front of my hotel, I shook the driver’s hand and wished his young son a happy birthday. Our brief encounters had been brotherly.